


Sickness and Health

by Todesengel



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Cholera, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, so much purple prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-18 16:26:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18253544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Todesengel/pseuds/Todesengel
Summary: Cholera comes to Four Corners





	Sickness and Health

**Author's Note:**

> So this was supposed to be a quick little fic about Ezra being forced to take care of Vin and being effective but also the worst nurse ever. And then my stupid magpie brain decided that it would be awesome if Vin had cholera. And now there's ~10k of words, mostly of boys being emotionally constipated at each other. 
> 
> As a heads up, the alternative title for this fic was "The Fic Formerly Known as Prince" because of how much purple prose there is in here.

The sickness comes with a cowboy from Galveston, who dies in his bed at the hotel, his sheets soiled and blood on his lips. It lingers long after he's gone, and spreads through town like a creeping vine, afflicting all it ensnares in its invisible embrace. Johan Keller, the hotel's porter, is the first to take ill, coming to Nathan's door two days after they bury the unknown cowboy. His wife, who runs the hotel's kitchen with a solid German fist, soon follows. Then come the Peterson boys, who have both been walking out with Johan's daughter, and Tiny, who eats at the hotel most nights, looking shamefaced and clutching at the waistband of his undone trousers. Then comes Ben Fielding, the undertaker, and Will Harper, the barber, and by mid-morning, the line of folk seeking healing stretches down the stairs and into the street.

Before noon, Nathan has turned the saloon into a makeshift hospital, for there are too many ailing to tend to in his clinic. 

By a quarter of two, the first person dies – the Widow Stimpley, who passes shaking and delirious, her weak cries for her dead husband's brother lost among the moans of her fellow patients as they lie in makeshift cots on the saloon's floor. 

By the time the sun sets, there are three more dead, and Nathan calls a meeting in the undertaker's embalming room after they carry the corpses inside. 

"It's cholera," he says, the day's long, slow battle weighing him down. The words fall like lead into the silent room, and Ezra knows he's not the only man to recoil in horror.

"You're sure?" Chris asks. 

"Seen it before," Nathan says. "Vomiting, cold skin and blue lips, shit like rice-water – ain't something that can be mistaken." 

"Lord give us strength," Josiah mutters. 

"Gonna need all of it," Nathan says grimly. "I think we got lucky here and caught it early; lots of folks is ailing, but it ain't the whole town, nor even half of it. I reckon it was that cowboy that brought it, but just to be safe we'll need to close the pump and tell folks they ain't to drink the water unless it's from the cisterns or been boiled or distilled; that goes for all the washing up and bathing too. Beer and cider should be fine – same for tea and coffee. Other than that, just gotta make sure folks stay clean as can be; y'all're gonna need to wash yourselves with good strong soap once we've burned these poor souls' clothes and bedding. If we're damn lucky – and, God willing, we will be – I reckon we'll all pull through and we ain't gonna sicken those that ain't already ailing."

"What about the ones that got it? Ain't we able to do something for 'em?" JD asks.

"Make 'em comfortable," Nathan says with a sigh. "Get 'em to eat some fortifying broth, or drink some ginger tea, and make sure the water's clean. Folk that get something down generally do better than those that can't. Ain't no true cure, though; least none that I'm aware of." He looks down at the sad bodies and shakes his head. "Still, it ain't always fatal, particularly if you can get 'em to keep food down. 'Specially if you get 'em early enough."

"And you're certain that we shan't be stricken by this ailment if we follow your advice?" Ezra asks. "There's nothing we can do to protect ourselves?"

"Like running away?" Nathan says, sharp and low, and Ezra flinches from the words and the condemnation they carry. Nathan sighs and moves to rub his face with his hands; he stops himself with a grimace before he's brought them halfway to his face. "Sorry. I know it ain't good; hell, I reckon I don't blame any of you for wanting to go. But I can't let you do that. We gotta go into quarantine, unless you want to spread this up and down the Territory."

"Sunday's the day after tomorrow," Vin says. "Lot of the homesteaders'll be coming in for church."

"We'll have to post guards at the road," Nathan says. "Warn 'em off."

"And what if they're ailing?" Vin asks. "We should warn 'em. Let 'em know what they oughta be doing. Help 'em if we can."

 _Run_ , he doesn't say, but Ezra hears him anyway. 

"Oh god, Casey," JD says. "I gotta—"

"Easy, son," Chris says. He nods at Vin and says, "You're right. Reckon we should send someone around. It'll have to wait for tomorrow, though."

"I'll go," Ezra says, before anyone else can speak up. He shrugs in response to the others' stares and feigns callous nonchalance to hide his desperate fear as he says, "Surely you don't think I'll do much good here. I am no nursemaid."

"I'll go too," Vin says, and Ezra gives him a look of fellow understanding. 

"Fine," Chris says, short and annoyed. 

"If folks are there and they're healthy, don't get too close," Nathan says. "Won't do no good if you get 'em sick while you're warning them."

"Of course." Erza rubs his hands together with a grimace; he thinks he can feel the sickness coating his skin like a greasy film and he longs to scrub himself clean with a near physical yearning. "Are we quite done here?"

"Yeah," Nathan says. "Come with me to the clinic; I'll give you some supplies to take with you. Reckon I won't have the time to help Archie with his gout."

"Mr. Tanner?" Ezra says, raising a questioning brow. Vin shakes his head.

"Reckon I should map our trail, make sure we get to 'em all."

"Very well. Lead on, Mr. Jackson," Ezra says. He wants to tuck his hands into his pockets, to fiddle with his pocket watch or take out his hip flask. He does neither and instead clasps his hands in front of him as he makes his way out onto the deserted street. The quiet is unsettling. The town should be bustling at this time of day, the saloon rowdy with drinkers and gamblers. But the only noise is the woeful barking of some distant dog and the muted groans of the sick and dying. He shivers as he follows Nathan up the stairs to the clinic, the skin on the back of his neck prickling like it does when the table starts to go bad. Everything is telling him to run, and he wants to desperately listen to his instincts, for they've kept him alive so far; but he remembers Chris's growled warning up on that sun-bleached bluff, so many months ago, and the desperate courage that had filled him when he realized he could not let these six men die. He feels an echo of that courage now; it's sharp enough to make him stand at the clinic's door, but no spur can force him into that sour smelling room.

"Gout tonic for Archie over at the Harper's ranch," Nathan says as he begins to collect the assorted medicines and puts them in a leather satchel. "Old Henry's cough syrup, Delilah's headache powder, fennel tea for Senora Chavez and her daughters." 

"Nathan," Ezra says, his hands twisting together in anxious energy, "are you sure there's nothing more we can do to protect ourselves from this disease?"

Nathan sighs and looks at Ezra with a gentle compassion that he finds is nearly intolerable to behold. 

"Lots of people are afraid of sickness. Ain't no shame in that."

"I am not afraid," Ezra snaps out, hoping his anger will mask the lie. "I merely wish to do my utmost to avoid such a humiliating disease. I've no desire to spend my last hours on this earth soiling myself like some incontinent simpleton."

"Well, seems to me that cleanliness is the best defense," Nathan says. "Ain't got no degree or fancy journal to back me up, but seems to me that if this sickness is spread by unsanitary conditions then a man's best defense is to be as sanitary as possible. Clean hands, clean clothes, clean bedding, clean food."

"And that's all," Ezra says dubiously. Nathan smiles, his eyes still warm with understanding; Ezra looks down and away, unable to bear Nathan's kind consideration. 

"That's all." Nathan passes the leather satchel over, then turns and rummages in the small cupboard above his washstand. He pulls out a small bar of pink soap and hands it to Ezra. "Here. Carbolic soap. Does wonders to prevent infection."

Ezra nods and says nothing as they walk down the stairs. He stands there as Nathan hurries back to the saloon, and considers what he ought to do. He can't return to his room in the saloon; it would take all the tea in China and then some to get him to set one foot inside that wretched building while the sick still lie in their makeshift cots and the stench of their waste pollutes the air. For that same reason, the hotel is out, for he will not sleep where this disease started. And though he is sure the boarding house is currently free of disease, it has never been the most salubrious of places; though he will never say as much in front of Mrs. Clemens. 

In truth, if Ezra could have he would have set off for the homesteads long before now, rather than wait for the morning. As much as he abhors roughing it, it would be a far sight better than waiting in town and gambling that the disease will pass him by. Luck is far too fickle to be relied on in such instances, and yet even with all of Nathan's calming words of cleanliness, Ezra is certain that he must rely solely on luck to avoid being struck down; there is no way to cheat here, no tricks that he can pull to stack the deck in his favor. 

Indeed, it's the very implacable nature of illness that frightens him so. He has always lived his life in the firm belief that every situation can be massaged into a more favorable outcome. Even when he's riding hell for leather out of a town, one length ahead of an angry clan, he knows his skill with his weapons – if not his words – can still preserve his skin. But with disease there is nothing to fight, no foe to persuade with honeyed words. He is helpless before it, and Ezra abhors being helpless. 

"Got the stuff from Nathan?" Vin asks, and Ezra starts, startled to find that in his contemplation he's walked to Vin's wagon.

"Yes," Ezra says, passing over the leather satchel. He keeps the soap clutched tight in his left hand and hesitates, unwilling to move on quite so soon. "I wonder, Mr. Tanner, if I might persuade you to fetch me a set of clean clothes."

Vin barks out a laugh and shakes his head with a smile. "Hell no. You ain't gonna get me to go in there."

Ezra nods. "Then perhaps Madame Chin has finished with my washing."

"If it's clothes you need, you can borrow some of mine," Vin says. His smile shifts, grows small and private in the way that Ezra has come to know and anticipate as a prelude to some whispered suggestion of finding a private spot to engage in sinfully indecent acts. "You can stay in the wagon, too. If you want."

"This is hardly the time," Ezra murmurs, unsure if he should feel pleased that even in such dire straits Vin still desires him, or repulsed by the idea – they could both be harboring this disease, after all, and Ezra can think of no worse fate than to be stricken while indulging in his carnal desires. 

"Just to sleep," Vin says. He glances at Ezra shyly through his lashes. "We don't always gotta do stuff. Sometimes it's just nice to be."

"I." Ezra stops and licks his lips, unsure of how to respond. If it had been anybody else, he would have dissembled, spun some fine words into gentle regrets. But though he still is taking the measure of the man, he knows enough to be certain that Vin won't appreciate the polite fictions that come trippingly to his lips. But perhaps more damning is that he's not sure what would be lie and what would be truth. He has thought of taking Vin to bed, of course, for so far their brief liaisons have been limited to simpler pursuits of hand and mouth that, while pleasant, are not wholly satisfying. He hungers to lie Vin down among his fine sheets and take the man apart, slowly and mercilessly; to sheathe himself in Vin's yielding flesh; to have the time and freedom to explore every inch and wring out every cry. But to engage in such endeavors is to acknowledge that what lies between them is more than mere convenience. He has not thought – he _will not_ think – that their liaisons anything else, any more permanent or meaningful connection. 

"Just offering," Vin says easily, as though he had not crossed some invisible line; as though he has not run roughshod over the careful boundaries of their infrequent intimacy. 

"I'll be in the jail," Ezra says. "I find I have a strong desire for walls this evening." He glances down at the soap still clutched in his hand and swallows the doubts clamoring in his head. "Perhaps you…?"

"Reckon it's healthier out in the open," Vin says. Ezra nods. 

"Nathan recommends we wash with carbolic soap," he says, offering the bar. "There would be enough for two."

"Got some soap from Nettie," Vin says. "Oughta do me fine."

"Then I suppose this is good night." Ezra steps away and hesitates. There is still time, he knows, to turn around and accept Vin's offer. It's a tempting proposition to be sure, and he has no doubts that Vin will stick to his word that this is solely an offer to share a bed and take nothing but the simple comfort that arises from the presence of a trusted companion. But the idea of contracting this disease – of sharing it or being stricken by it – is too abhorrent to allow Ezra to turn and reconsider. And so he wends his way to Madame Chin's laundry to collect a set of still damp clothes, and then on to the jail, where he hauls in bucket after bucket of rainwater from the barrels out back and heats them to a jumping boil on the jail's stove. It's far too hot, but Ezra uses it to wash himself anyway, scrubbing hard with soap and flannel until his skin is red and tender. He breathes a little easier once he's done, certain now that he is clean, and his thoughts turn inexorably back to Vin. His refusal to accept Vin's hospitality seems foolish, now that he has scoured his body clean; indeed, all of his fears seem foolish when faced head on. He knows he's free of sickness – he hasn't eaten at the hotel in weeks, not since Frau Keller began serving large helpings of minced, raw pork with every meal – and he has never been the kind of man to partake in something as plain as water. But more importantly the last time he'd been able to steal a few unhurried minutes with Vin had been nearly a month ago, and his cock stirs in budding interest as he thinks about the curve of Vin's lips as he'd smiled. 

He eats a plain meal of hard cheese and buttered bread instead, and makes himself as comfortable as he can upon the cot in the cell. It's only as he drifts in that unpleasantly unguarded state between sleeping and waking that he thinks that perhaps Vin had made the offer for his own comfort and not from desire. Vin's mother had died of some disease, he knows, but he has not thought of what that death truly meant to Vin; nor has he thought of what effect seeing these blue and wasted bodies might have to one who had such a primal loss so closely linked to some dread disease. It seems to him, now, that Vin was reaching out in his own, awkward fashion; for all that the man is straightforward in his desires, he guards his inner self as jealously and ferociously as Ezra does his own. The thought stirs him to action, and he's got his boots halfway on before he's conscious of his body moving.

But pride won't let him go to Vin now – it doesn't matter if it's his pride or Vin's, for it's the same result either way. Despite the equanimity with which Vin accepted his refusal, he has no doubt that the man's pride has been stung. Vin reached out and he turned away, and while this was not as unkind as his rebuffing of Vin's halting request to write down his poem, he cannot help but feel that the slight may have cut Vin deeper this time. And besides, his own pride will not stand the thought of slinking to Vin's side – of having the man think that Ezra is so cowed by this disease that he can't spend a single night alone; or, worse, that he is so beholden to his prick that he can be brought to heel by his animal desires. 

He lies back down and closes his eyes, forces his thoughts away from the man laying in a wagon only a few doors away. Sleep, when it comes, is fitful and troubled, his dreams oppressive impressions of unnamable dread. He gives up on all pretense of sleep as the first rays of dawn push back the jail's gloom. It feels wrong to rise so early – to greet the sun as his day begins, rather than when it ends – but he knows better than to try and force more rest. 

He washes again, instead, and goes to collect his horse; he's not surprised to find Vin already there, his own horse saddled and waiting. 

"You're up early," Vin says. "Thought I'd have to go in there and wake you up myself."

"I believe you're right about the healthful charms of the open air, and wish to avail myself of them with all due speed," Ezra says. Vin smirks and Ezra busies himself with his horse's tack so he doesn't have to look at that smile. 

They ride out into the quiet dawn, and it's not until they've gone past the first bend and the town is out of sight that Ezra feels like he can truly breathe. He sits back in his saddle, shoulders slowly loosening, and nudges his horse closer to Vin's. 

"Where are we off to first?" he asks. 

"Reckon we'll go to the Wells' place first," Vin says, unabashed in his blatant favoritism. "Then I think we should go westwards from there and circle around. Oughta hit most of the homesteads before nightfall, and I reckon we can get the last few in the morning, or catch 'em on their way to church."

"Sounds like a most excellent plan. Although I'll leave the harridan to you."

Vin laughs and bumps his leg against Ezra's; the horses snort and jostle against each other before moving apart. "Nettie ain't that bad. Just 'cause she's immune to your charms—"

"She is a wretched hag of a woman," Ezra says with doleful exaggeration, delighting in the crinkling laughter of Vin's eyes. "I realize your uncouth upbringing has left you with perverse notions about women, but withered and bitter crones are not the highest standard of womanhood."

"Got me some perverse notions about other things, too," Vin says. His smile is lewd and full of promise, and Ezra can't look at it for fear of his prick swelling uncomfortably in his pants. Vin laughs again and rides his horse into Ezra's before spurring it into a fast trot. Ezra's horse snorts and tosses its head.

"I am in fervent agreement," Ezra tells it. "Infuriating, the pair of them."

They make good time to the Wells' homestead and, true to his word, Vin is the one to shout the warning from the gate. 

"Is JD all right?" Casey calls from the porch, Nettie's hand an iron restraint upon her arm. 

"He's fine," Vin calls back. "Reckon he'd be happiest if you just stayed here."

"Where'd it come from?" Nettie asks. 

"Fella from Galveston," Vin says. "Came through a few days ago. You ain't had any strangers at your place, have you?"

"No," Nettie says. "Casey and I mange just fine. And we've got chores to be doing. Besides, we best not keep you boys from your rounds." She nods and Ezra forces himself not to squirm under her disapproving stare. "Be safe, Vin."

"You too, Nettie." Vin touches the brim of his hat and turns his horse towards the road; Ezra doesn't bother with such niceties. 

"The world will end and I swear she will still be there, glaring and threatening the impending apocalypse with her old Spencer carbine," Ezra says as they ride away; it's a poor attempt at comfort, he knows, but it's the best he can do. 

"Lord I hope so," Vin says, as fervent as any prayer Josiah's ever uttered. 

"Who's next?" Ezra asks. 

"Harper's place," Vin says. He glances over, eyes heavy with some distant memory. He doesn't speak, and Ezra lets his silence grow between them, knowing the signs of a man struggling to voice a buried truth. "She ain't my ma, but—"

"I understand," Ezra says, as much because he does as because he wants to spare them both the struggle of Vin's explanation. 

"All right," Vin says, nodding. 

They ride on in companionable silence, their progress lazy, and while Ezra notes the frequency of their halts, he pays it no special attention; Vin's saddle looks new, and Ezra is all too familiar with the discomfort of breaking in a new seat. They make their way to Harper's ranch, where they deliver the news and the gout tonic, and then to Tomas Griego's place, and the Lopez's small sheep farm, and Charlie Horn's ranch. Their news is greeted with shock and alarm – and in the case of Charlie, muttered imprecations on the whole state of Texas – but no sickness. By the time they leave Charlie's place Ezra's convinced that they've managed to pull a fast one on Chris – that there will be no sick or ailing, and he and Vin have wrangled the better part of two days to themselves to do with as they will, free from the pall that has settled across the town. He has half a mind to see if he can convince Vin to take an extended lunch when they ride up to the Barker's place. 

The silence that greets them when Vin calls out a greeting is chilling, and the dread thoughts of dead bodies left to rot in the warm summer sun quashes whatever lustful fantasies had been slowly brewing. Ezra shivers in the quiet and glances at Vin. He's not surprised to see Vin look pale and uncertain. 

"We should check the house," he says at last, the words reluctantly dragged out of him. 

"Gonna check the outhouse first," Vin says. He shrugs and dismounts, looping the reins of his bridle over a fence post. His hand shakes a little and Ezra frowns. "Where I'd go if—"

"Right." Ezra dismounts and hitches his horse to the rail. He looks about the deserted property and wonders what he hopes to find. "Where are all the cows?"

"What?" Vin says.

"The cows. If I recall, Henry Barker had a well-established herd. And where are his horses?"

"Cattle drive?" Vin says. His voice shakes and Ezra shoots him a concerned glance. He looks terrible, pale and sweaty, and Ezra is unsure if it's fear at the thought of finding bodies – though Vin has never been one to shy away from gruesome death – or something worse. He finds himself shivering as well, a cold prickle of fear trailing down his back. 

"Vin," he says, taking a step forward.

"I'm—" Vin pales even further and takes a shaking step, his hands fumbling at his suspenders, before he falls to his knees and vomits onto the dusty ground. 

Ezra recoils. 

The vomiting seems interminable, and Ezra wonders that Vin could have ever eaten so much food. He waits, unsure of what to do, torn between a nascent need to ease Vin's discomfort and the ingrained sense of self-preservation that has seen him through so many years. The indecision paralyzes him, and in his paralysis he wonders at the suddenness of Vin's distress. 

"Fuck," Vin says at last, spitting into the dirt. He stays on his knees, staring into the mess of mud and bile. "Fuck."

Ezra shuffles closer, then steps away; a hesitant one-two dance that leaves him trapped in place. "Are…Are you well?"

Vin laughs, a humorless wheeze, then hunches as his stomach tries to empty itself again. Ezra steels himself and moves close enough to lay a comforting hand on Vin's back. This close he can smell the sour tang of Vin's vomit and see the slightly sunken hollows of his eyes. He can smell, too, a strangely fishy odor on the air – the same as the one that had hung like a miasmatic cloud over the bodies of the sick in the saloon.

"How long," he asks, hoping – and yet dreading – to have his suspicions confirmed.

"Started feeling queer at Harper's," Vin mutters. "Figured it out when we stopped to piss."

"You should have told me," Ezra snaps. "We could have made it back to town."

"Ain't gonna die on my back in some goddamn saloon," Vin snaps back; he starts to raise his head to glare, but groans and drops it instead. His shoulders heave with his gasping breaths; Ezra strokes his hand slowly down Vin's back, like he remembers some distant aunt doing for him when he'd come down with some childhood illness. 

"You're not going to die at all," Ezra says, sharp and harsh. "I will not let that happen, despite your best efforts."

"You heard Nathan. Ain't no cure for this."

"What I heard was that only obstinate fools who hide their sickness die." Ezra steps back and paces, a fast staccato that still fails to fully express the tumult whirling with in. The anger burns hot within him – and it is a fierce and hot anger, both at Vin's foolish ideas of what would be an acceptable death and the callous selfishness that he would force Ezra to watch him helplessly sicken and wither – but it can't quite burn out the fear; for all that he has not let himself think of Vin becoming more than an attractive convenience, it has happened anyway, and he quails at the sharp and sudden pain that stabs him at the thought of Vin dying, of letting Vin die. 

He leans into the anger, lets it fill him up until he can ignore the fear, and reaches down to tug at Vin's coat. "Get up."

"Ain't in any condition to ride," Vin says as he rises slowly to his feet. He wobbles as he stands; Ezra grimaces and slides underneath Vin's arm, bracing himself against Vin's trembling weight. 

"I know that. But we need to get you out of the sun." He walks them to the low-slung bunkhouse, an agonizingly slow process that's halted twice as Vin pushes away to vomit again. Ezra wants to sigh when he can finally prop Vin up in the sparse shade of the bunkhouse porch; more than that, he wants to shudder and fly to his horse and ride away from this place and Vin's pale, shaking frame. 

"Get undressed," he says, instead. "Or would you prefer to lie there in your own waste?"

"This is hardly the time," Vin says, grinning like his shirt isn't stained with bile. Ezra glares at him, unable to decide if he despises the man with the kind of depth he reserves for those men who are better cheaters than he is, or admires Vin's ability to laugh, even now. 

He shakes his head and turns sharply on his heel, heading for the bunkhouse door. It doesn't take much to deal with the lock – it's nothing more than a simple latch, easy enough to pick open – or to take in the slightly dusty interior. It's a utilitarian space – the bunks rough but serviceable, with a squat pot-bellied stove in the middle, and a small cupboard near the back – and Ezra nods. It'll do, until Vin is well again. He finds sheets in the cupboard and roughly makes up the nearest bed, before starting a fire in the stove. In the quiet, the anger fades and the fear surges back; his hands shake as he puts match to tinder and he has to pause and stare at the small flames before he feels capable of standing and grabbing the pail by the door before going back outside. 

Vin sits where Ezra left him, his jacket and shirt off but his pants still on and a mulish expression on his face. Ezra does not look at the bundle of cloth lying by Vin's side, the shirt tails unpleasantly damp looking. 

"Vin," he says, the anger coming back. 

"Ain't taking off my pants," Vin says. 

"Nathan said cleanliness—" 

"I ain't unclean!" Vin growls.

"You, sir, are the very definition of unclean!" Ezra shouts. "Is your damnable dignity more important than your life?"

It's the wrong thing to say and he knows it – knows it by the set of Vin's shoulders and the way he clutches at his suspenders; knows it by the regret that flares in him as soon as the words leave his mouth. He sighs and clenches his fists – as much to keep himself from punching Vin as to prevent himself from reaching out and pulling Vin close, as though by clutching him firmly in his arms he can keep Vin's life from slipping through his fingers. 

"If you die because you will not take off your pants so that you may be washed clean," he says, slowly and carefully, squatting down until he can look Vin straight in the eyes, "I will drag your corpse to Tascosa and use that five hundred dollars on your head to buy the Wells' farm. I will raze it to the ground and send that harridan into penury, hounding her for the rest of her old and miserable life. I will erect a monument to your stubborn pigheadedness and every year I shall hang an effigy in your place to remind the world that Vin Tanner is worth no more than the hemp it takes to make a noose."

"You wouldn't," Vin says, but his voice quavers. 

"I will," Ezra promises, with all the false sincerity he can muster. "Even if you care not a whit for yourself, or for the pain your death will cause me, I know you care about her. If you don't wish to look down upon her as she goes about begging and in rags, then you will do as I goddman say, and take off your godammn pants, and let me tend to you!" He's shouting by the end and he hates that Vin can rile him so. 

"Fine," Vin mutters, slowly relaxing his stranglehold upon his suspenders. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Ezra says, struggling to regain his equanimity. He puts the pail down, focusing on it so he doesn't have to look at Vin. "Just take off your damn pants." 

He turns and strides off towards the main house, trying to remember what Nathan had said: fortifying broth and ginger tea and not to drink the water unless it'd been boiled. He has none of those things, and his footsteps falter as the sheer weight of the situation threatens to crush him. He can't do this, he thinks. He can't be responsible for Vin; he never asked for such responsibility; never wanted such responsibility; this is why he'd persisted in the pleasant lie that Vin was not, could not be—

Behind him, Vin groans and retches.

Ezra forces his mind away from such thoughts and quickens his steps. He may not have broth or tea or clean water, but he knows how to find such things. He can do that; he can search through another man's home.

The lock on the main house is a more substantial thing – something that requires time and attention. The wood it's attached to is brittle and dried out; it splinters easily beneath Ezra's boot. He shoulders the door open and steps into the closed up house. He ransacks the place with methodical precision, gathering up a kettle and the largest pot he can find in the kitchen before raiding the cupboards for any forgotten food; he's nearly brought to tears when he finds the small cubes of portable soup wrapped up tight in their waxed paper packages, carefully stacked next to a half-empty bag of salt. They are ugly blocks of hope, and he sweeps them all and the bag of salt into the pot. He takes rags for washing, and a greasy bar of soap, then moves on into Barker's bedroom; Vin will need clothes once he's better, and while he's taller than Henry Barker, Ezra reckons Vin will just have to suffer the indignity of riding back into town in too-small clothes. It's less of a punishment than he deserves, to Ezra's mind, and he takes a vicious pleasure in the image of Vin riding awkwardly in his borrowed clothes. 

Vin is lying halfway between the bunkhouse and the horses when Ezra steps out of the big house, and for moment Ezra's vision doubles and wavers as panic shoots through his body. The kettle and pot clang dully together as he hurries down the small path to where Vin lies and he nearly drops the whole awkward collection twice before he reaches Vin's prone body. This close he can see the filth crusting the back of Vin's legs, and he must steel himself against the skin-crawling revulsion that washes over him. 

"What do you think you're doing," he hisses, letting go of his looted prizes with a clatter. 

"The horses," Vin mutters. 

"I'll take care of that." He reaches down to grab Vin's arm and haul him up; Vin curses and pulls away. 

"I ain't an invalid," Vin says. "I can pull my own weight."

"You most certainly are an invalid." Ezra reaches down again, then curses as Vin pushes him away. He sighs and glares down, not surprised to see Vin glaring back up, his jaw stuck out in stubborn pride.

"Please," he says, quieter, nearly begging. "Please. Let me help you. I can not – I will not bear it if—" He swallows, unable to continue. Vin glances down and away; his mulish expression eases into something so soft that it makes Ezra's chest ache. 

"Ok," Vin says, quietly. 

"You'll come? You'll do as I ask?"

"Yeah." Vin nods and lets Ezra haul him upright by the elbow. Ezra does him the courtesy of ignoring the pool of watery shit he'd been lying next to. He cannot ignore the dryness of Vin's skin, or the way his heart flutters rapidly at his throat. 

"Drink this," he says, pushing his hip flask into Vin's hands once he's gotten him settled back on the porch.

Vin gives him a sidelong look before taking a swig from the flask. Ezra nods and picks up the water pail. 

"The horses," Vin says again. 

"Don't worry."

Ezra takes the pail to the pump and hauls on the handle. It seems to take forever to fill the pail – certainly long enough for Ezra to grow so uncomfortably hot that he must remove both coat and vest – but at last the pail is full and heavy. He carries it back to the porch and sets it down before Vin, who salutes him sloppily with the flask. Ezra itches to take it back and drink a shot himself, but he knows that he'll never use that flask again. He heaves a sigh in mourning, instead, and goes to fetch his pile of scavenged things. He dips a rag into the water and then frowns. They'll need another bucket, for he knows he can't use this water for both washing and drinking; Nathan's calm recitation of clean hands, clean clothes, clean bedding, and clean food echoes in his mind. 

"Here," he says, thrusting both cloth and soap at Vin. "Clean yourself up. I'll see to the horses."

Vin nods in embarrassed gratitude and begins to wipe his body down. Ezra looks away again, though he's no longer sure if he does so for Vin's sake or his own. He picks up the pot as he goes and leaves it by the pump before making his way to the horses; they snort and stomp their displeasure as they see him. He untacks them as quickly as he can and turns them out into the nearest pasture; the saddles and blankets he leaves on the rails, but the bags he takes back with him to the pump. It seems to take less time to fill the pot, though it's heavier than the pail and his arms are aching with the strain of carrying it back to the bunkhouse. He heaves it up onto the stove – the fire is burning merrily and the whole room feels too hot already – and puts in three unwrapped cakes of portable soup and a handful of salt. He fills the kettle next, and puts it on the stove; the water in the pot is still tepid and turning an unpleasant brown as the cakes of soup slowly dissolve. They're going to need cups, he thinks, and bowls and spoons. Another pail. A chamber pot. 

He's aware that he's hiding, aware that he doesn't want to go outside and face Vin. 

"I care," Vin says from the doorway, soft and raspy. "About you, about us. I care."

"If you cared," Ezra says, eyes still on the stove, arms crossed firmly across his chest, "you would have said something far earlier than now. At Harper's, or the Lopez's, or even Charlie Horn's."

He pushes past Vin and goes back to Barker's house. By the time he's collected all he needs – mugs and bowls and spoons and another pail and the washbasin from Barker's washstand – he's no longer trembling and the hot, prickling feeling has fled from his eyes. 

The water is boiling in the kettle – but not in the pot – when he gets back to the bunkhouse with a fresh pail of water. He fills the washbasin with the steaming water and scrubs his hands with Nathan's soap – it's far too hot, and he hisses at the pain, but he does it anyway – before filling a mug and carrying it outside to where Vin hangs off the porch, vomiting all of Ezra's good whiskey into the dirt. 

At least he's clean, is all Ezra can think. He feels drained, as tired as if he'd been out all day galloping hard away from an angry mob; or worse, the way he does after sparring with his mother. He's wrung out of his small reserves of kindness; there's only sullen duty left, and resentful resignation, feelings that only increase when he sees the blood speckling Vin's lips. 

"Here," he says, putting the steaming mug next to Vin. "Drink that."

Vin coughs and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thanks," he says, but he doesn't take the mug. Ezra sighs and goes to the bucket Vin used to wash himself clean. He tips it carefully out onto the ground, standing well back to make sure none of the soapy water splashes onto his trousers. The rag Vin used lies in a sodden clump and Ezra casts about to find a stick to use to pick it up and put it with Vin's clothes. 

"Before my Ma died they locked her up," Vin says into the quiet distance between them. "Folk from town came and put her in a wagon and carried her off. They didn't let me see her even after she died – told me she had a putrid fever and they'd burned her." Ezra raises his eyes from the ground and looks at Vin, who stares into the steaming mug of water like it's the only sure thing in his world. "Ain't gonna let that happen to me, Ezra. I ain't."

"You think Nathan would lock you away?"

"Said we needed quarantine, didn't he? Ain't he been taking all the sick and stacking 'em up in the saloon?"

"For treatment. For the town's safety."

Vin grimaces and takes a small sip from the mug. "Said that back then, too."

"So your glorious plan was to do what, exactly? Spread this sickness so far across the country that there wouldn't be a place big enough to hold all the dying?"

"No," Vin says, sullen and low. "I didn't have a plan. Reckoned I'd just wait it out. And anyway, I didn't let anybody get close; didn't shit nowhere near their water, neither."

"So it was to be just me, then," Ezra says. His voice trembles and he doesn't bother to hide how much he's shaking now; to hide how angry he's become. "I was to be the only witness to your demise."

"Would've suggested we split up, after here, and found a place to…"

"To crawl away and die like some fucking animal," Ezra grinds out. He begins to pace again, needing to move, to act before he struck out a Vin. "Yes, I can see how deep your consideration for me truly runs."

"Hell, ain't like you've been exactly considerate of me!" Vin says, anger making his voice sharp and loud, like the retort of his rifle. "We ain't done nothing but jerk each other off. We ain't even kissed! You ain't shown me one lick that you cared about more than that. That you wanted—." He stutters to a stop and turns to retch in the dirt. 

Ezra turns and goes back inside the bunkhouse. The soup is boiling now, so Ezra moves it back and sets the kettle back to boil. He takes a rag and dips it in his washing water, then ladles some soup into a bowl and goes back outside. He sets the bowl and spoon down before Vin, then hands him the rag. 

"Thanks," Vin says wearily as he wipes the bile from his lips. 

"Eat the soup," Ezra says. 

Vin nods and tries to pick up the spoon; his hands shake like an old man's, rattling the spoon against the side of the bowl and spilling the spoonful of soup before it gets halfway to his lips. He drops his chin to his chest and whimpers. "Shit."

"Let me," Ezra says, sitting down and taking the bowl. He brings a careful spoonful up to Vin's lips; Vin grimaces, but opens his mouth and lets Ezra feed him the trickle of soup. 

"This is humiliating," Vin says, clutching his hands together in his lap. 

"I heartily concur," Ezra says. He feeds Vin another spoonful of soup and considers the man before him. He has never been one for confession – it seems such a pointless exercise to him, for he has never known a single person who truly preferred the plain stone of truth to the glitter of a well-spun lie. His is a life of half-truths and misdirection, and perhaps it was always inevitable that he and Vin would come to this point of rebuffing each other; and, yet it still hurts him to the quick that Vin believed him so indifferent. 

He brings the spoon up again and Vin shakes his head. Ezra nods and puts the bowl down; he waits, and when it becomes clear that Vin isn't going to vomit, brings the mug up to Vin's lips. 

"I am not one to be overtly demonstrative when it comes to affairs of the heart," he says quietly as he watches the smooth column of Vin's throat swallow careful sips of water. "I'm certainly not as carelessly free with my affection as Buck or Josiah. And yet, I had hoped you knew that I have always found our coupling to be most enjoyable."

Vin chuckles and brings his shaking hand up to push the mug slightly away. "Figured as much when you was sucking my dick."

"Perceptive as always, Mr. Tanner," he says dryly. He lowers the mug and fiddles with the handle. "But as much as I wish it weren't so, I do care about you, deeper than I would like."

"Don't gotta sound like that's the worse thing in the world," Vin says. 

"I am not the type of man who longs for permanent attachment," Ezra says. "Nor are you."

"You don't know that."

"Oh? Would you really be happy with a bachelor marriage? An anchor tying you to one place, forever and always?" Ezra laughs and shakes his head. "You live out of a goddamn wagon; of course you'd hate it."

"I could learn," Vin says, stubbornly. "For the right person. For the right reasons."

"You may be dying because you were too damn scared of Nathan's sickroom to admit you needed healing," Ezra says tiredly. "Even if we were nothing more than fellow compatriots, I do not deserve to watch you die."

"Wasn't scared of Nathan's sickroom," Vin says, sounding just as tired. "I just didn't want to die alone, like my Ma. I didn't…I wanted to see you. I wanted to know you were there."

"Eat the soup," Ezra says, standing and walking away. His mind feels slow and uncertain, and he doesn't know why. He thinks it might be false hope that's making him feel this way; he has no doubt that Vin believes wholeheartedly in what he's saying, that he truly believes that he can become domesticated enough to live in town, to live in Ezra's world. But Ezra knows that, in time, that domestication will chafe and resentment will grow and fester, like a gangrenous wound. And even if it did not, even if Vin could be truly happy tied to one place, one man, one bed, Ezra knows he could never ask for such a thing. It's Vin's wild nature that he finds so attractive – the unvarnished and rough determination of self that fascinates him so. Vin is unlike so many of the men Ezra's made time for; unlike even the ones who have been born upon this wild soil. Ezra knows that to tame that wild nature would be to kill it, and he can't do that to Vin. Besides, Ezra's tried for something more permanent, more meaningful than a fumbling hand job in an empty room before and that, well—

He runs his tongue across his gold tooth and shakes his head. 

Outside the porch creaks, and Ezra turns to look out the window. The wavy glass distorts Vin's form, but Ezra can still make out the look of fierce determination on his face as he slowly drinks the soup straight from the bowl. He looks young, sitting there without a stitch on and making faces at his food, and it makes something grow tight and painful in Ezra's chest. He hadn't been lying when he'd said he couldn't bear it if Vin died, and he knows that he won't be able to bear it when Vin leaves. Affection has already worked deep roots into his heart, and he knows all too well the pain that comes when those roots must be ripped free. 

He turns away from the window and busies himself with searching the saddlebags for something to eat. There's dry meat and fruit in his bags. It makes a paltry meal, but it's better than the soup, which is aggressively beefy and far too salty. He almost regrets making Vin eat it, but even with Vin's quiet explanation still scuttling through his heart he can't quite forgive the man's callous disregard. It seems like a fit punishment, like so many of the small indignities that have been heaped on Vin's head today. 

"I finished the damn soup," Vin says, hovering at the door. "It was terrible."

"It's meant to be fortifying, not palatable." Ezra eyes the pot and picks up the second bowl. "You should probably eat more."

"Could've fortified a brick wall." Vin takes a step in, then stops, as though the threshold is an actual bar; as though the distance between them is too far to make up. 

"How do you feel?"

Vin shrugs. "My belly ain't wriggling like a bag full of snakes." He takes another step, and Ezra turns. "Ezra, I—"

"Unless you are here to speak about the weather, or to ask for more soup or water, we have nothing to say to each other," Ezra says, cutting off whatever stuttering confession Vin might insist on sharing. 

"Ain't gonna die without telling you how I feel," Vin says, frowning. "Not when I reckon we both got a lot to say to each other."

"And I refuse to listen. I will not talk about sentiment with a dying man." Ezra looks at the fire, at the soup, at anywhere but Vin. "It's pointless to discuss what could have been with a man so determined that he has no future."

"Then I guess I better get better," Vin says. He stomps over to the stove and grabs the empty bowl, holding it out with stubborn determination. "Give me some more of that soup." 

Ezra dutifully fills the bowl and says, "Don't forget the water."

Vin grunts and shoots him a sour look, before turning and walking away. He's moving faster than he should and the soup sloshes up and out of the bowl, leaving a dark trail on the dusty wood. Ezra watches him go, watches the way his breath grows shallow and how his ass clenches; he's not surprised to see the bowl fall, clattering, to the ground, as Vin swears and runs for the side of the bunkhouse. 

Ezra takes the bowl and refills it. He takes it and a clean, damp rag outside, puts them both down carefully at the spot where Vin's been sitting. He takes the mug Vin's been drinking from and fills it with steaming water. He takes the pail Vin used to wash himself and refills it at the pump. The simple actions do nothing to ease the circling thoughts that race through his mind. Both anger and fear have ebbed, now leaving only the tangled mess of affection and dread that is his normal state with Vin. The desires he has pushed aside – the simple pleasures he receives from watching Vin across a crackling fire; of seeing the man's pleased smile when he torments them all with his damn mouth harp; of walking, companionably, down Main Street as they head to the saloon – spring forth and flood him with a melancholy ache. He yearns for more of those moments; yearns, too, to add new memories of Vin at rest and at war, and he knows that if Vin survives this day he'll forgive the man of this foul trespass, no matter the cost to them both. 

But for now, there's nothing more that he can do, and so he waits, repeating all these simple tasks off and on through the interminable day as Vin grimly drinks the too-salty soup, and carefully drinks the steaming water, and cleans himself with an endless succession of rags. After a while, Ezra returns to Barker's house and raids his parlor, finding a handful of dime novels that he reads aloud between bouts of Vin's wretched heaving and shamefaced dashes for any semblance of privacy. Beyond that, they don't talk, except once, when Vin looks up from the bowl of soup and says, "You ain't getting rid of me that easy."

Ezra says nothing, and Vin nods, as though there's a true answer in his silence. 

When the long day finally ends, and true night settles upon the small homestead – and, more importantly, Vin has not vomited or shat himself in several hours – Ezra fetches the nightgown he pillaged from Barker's house. He helps Vin put it on and it's too short, as he thought it would be, the hem ending well above Vin's knees and the cuffs coming to halfway down Vin's forearms. Somehow, it's not as humorous a sight as he thought it would be; somehow, it stirs up hope – hope that Vin will pass through this night without soiling himself. It's as though being clothed brings them out of the day's long limbo of uncertain fate, transforms Vin from a naked corpse waiting to laid out who has yet to realize that it's no longer alive to a living man with a future still before him.

Vin sways and stumbles as he takes a step forward, clutching hard to the porch railing. Ezra moves to his side and wraps an arm around Vin's waist, lets Vin lean on his shoulder. It's the closest he's allowed Vin to come all day since he first collapsed, and he can't help but lean into the warmth of Vin's body. He expects Vin to smell of sickness, still, but he smells mostly of harsh lye soap, and salty beef, and the dusty ghosts of cedar from Barker's borrowed shirt.

"I ain't dying," Vin says as they shuffle forward until they reach the bunk. "Reckon we can talk now."

"I will not accept your diagnosis until Nathan has confirmed it," Ezra replies, though he suspects Vin's correct in his assessment. The ones who died had looked blue, at the end, and withered; Vin just looks tired and miserable. As such, it's not quite the shock it should have been when Vin reaches out and grabs his wrist, locking him in place with feeble strength.

"Do you hate me, Ezra?"

"I…" Ezra says, struck dumb by the question; his knee-jerk reaction is to say yes, for he's full of spite and the need to lash out, to make Vin hurt. But he can't strike at Vin now, not when he's wrung out and shadowed, staring out of tired eyes. He licks his lips and sighs. "No. I was angrier today than I have ever been, but I don't hate you. Though there's still time for that to happen."

Vin nods, like that was the answer he was expecting. "When you was helping me…shoot, that made me 'bout as happy as anything. Makes it seem almost worth it, to be so sick, if it means you'd look after me." 

Ezra stares at him, appalled. 

Vin frowns and pulls him closer. "I know it ain't right. And I'm sorry I've put you in this mess; hell, I'm sorry I'm in this mess myself. And I'm sorry that it makes me glad to know you care. But, damn it Ezra, I can't be the only one drowning out here." 

Ezra laughs, short and ugly – at Vin, at the faint curl of ugly pleasure that wafts like hope within him. It's maddening to know how badly he wants Vin's affection; but perhaps more troubling is how much it pleases him to know the lengths Vin will go for his. Logically he knows he has to end this, now, before they lead each other down a path neither can escape – and yet the part of him that thrills more for the surge of uncertainty that comes with any good con than for the coin he might score urges him to cling to Vin, to never let him go. He is too far gone, and he knows it, so he sighs as he says, "We are doomed. I'm too selfish and you're an idiot."

"Ain't stupid to want to know a person cares," Vin says. 

"Of course it is," Ezra says. "To hide the gravity of your condition just so that I must step into the unhappy role of a hapless nursemaid just to force some confession of sentiment from me is idiocy of the highest measure."

"Maybe if you'd done something sooner, I wouldn't've had to."

"Do not try and turn this on me, Vin. I refuse to be held responsible for your actions." Ezra sighs and sits down on the bunk. He doesn't resist when Vin shifts his grasp to take his hand. "I wasn't lying when I said I am not a man who longs for a permanent attachment."

"Who said it's gotta be permanent?" Vin turns their clasped hands over and looks up; the bare vulnerability on his face stirs some painful ache deep inside Ezra's soul, but he forces himself to meet Vin's eyes. "Ain't saying we need a bachelor marriage or a house or nothing like that. Just maybe more than what we've been doing. Like I told you, sometimes it's nice to just be."

"I do not long for permanent attachment," Ezra says again, "but once I have it, I do not let it go easily. I will fight you in a most uncivilized manner if you try to leave me."

Vin nods solemnly. "Ain't the kind to fight if you want to go. But I reckon you should know I ain't the kind of man who likes to share." He grins, suddenly, sharp and fast. "And I reckon I could take you, if I wanted to leave."

"I am a born cheat, Vin. I don't know why you think it would be a fair fight."

"Ain't above fighting dirty, neither." Vin sighs and stares longing at Ezra's lips. "Wish I could kiss you right now."

Ezra leans away, nose wrinkling in disgust. "I have seen not only what you've eaten today, but what's come out of that mouth. I have no desire to associate with it in any intimate fashion."

Vin nods. "Reckoned you'd say that. Reckon you ain't gonna agree to sleep here with me, too."

"This is not the manner in which I have envisioned us sharing a bed," Ezra says, but he smiles as he stands. "Nor the bed in which I envisioned us."

"Yeah? You envision other things about us in bed?" Vin asks, smiling that small smile that had drawn Ezra to him in the first place; it should not stir such warmth in Ezra's heart to see that smile. 

"Sleep," Ezra says moving away from temptation. "Once Nathan says you're healthy, then we'll see."

Vin laughs quietly. "Shoot. You say things like that and I’m liable to jump on my horse and demand we ride back right now."

"And I'd let you, if I didn't know I'd end up carrying you halfway there," Ezra tells him, as he goes to make his own bed. 

They leave on the Monday, with the sun already well on its daily journey, an excess of caution having led Ezra to insist upon delaying their return for one more day. Though Vin had passed that night without trouble, he'd still been too pale for Ezra's comfort; besides, he believes they both needed the long rest that extra day afforded. Beyond that, he'd needed the day to gather Vin's stained clothes and washing rags and burn them in the center of Barker's yard – he'd even gotten the leather coat to catch, and the argument over that garment had nearly destroyed whatever tentative understanding they had come to between them. As such, he is not particularly sympathetic to the sight of Vin wearing his borrowed finery, and scowling fiercely at the road ahead. 

"Killed the buffalo myself," Vin says, as they reach the crossroads that joins Barker's ranch to the main road into town. "You know how hard it is to find a buffalo 'round here these days?"

"No, and I do not particularly care," Ezra says. "I'm sure we can find one up in the Dakotas, if you're that insistent on having a buffalo hide coat."

"Huh," Vin mutters. He edges his horse closer to Ezra's and casts a shy, sidelong smile at him. "You'd go to the Dakotas with me, just for a hunt?"

"Well," Ezra says, smiling back, "not just for a hunt. The rumor is a man with a shovel can make his fortune in the Black Hills."

Vin barks out a laugh. "Don't tell me you want to go prospecting." 

"Of course not. I'd rather take it from them at the tables." He glances at Vin, who looks somewhat less pleased than he had a moment ago, and steels himself for naked affection. "I shan't be much help on an actual hunt, but I would much prefer to go with you than see you off alone. The gambling halls in Deadwood and Hill City would provide me with a means to hone my craft while you hone yours."

Vin grins and brings his horse close enough to knock against Ezra's leg. "Yeah. We could do that." His grin grows and he leans in close as he says, low and quiet, like a rumbling promise, "Bet you'd clean 'em out, too, and we could get the best damn bed in town."

Ezra licks his lips, suddenly struck breathless by the wave of affection that crashes through him. He wants to run away from it; wants to wallow in it; wants to pull Vin out of his saddle right now and show him the depth and breadth of his affection. His mind catches on that last thought and he considers it. Surely Vin is clean of disease by now; and even if he's not, if they did not kiss, if they kept solely to their hands – or, perhaps, if he played the woman and let Vin rut between his thighs – and washed thoroughly afterwards, they could indulge their baser needs right now.

He licks his lips again, wondering if he's grown so uncouth as to casually suggest they stop at the next stream they find and enjoy a quick fuck. 

"Hey!" JD calls from some ways ahead of them as they round the bend that will bring the town back into view. He spurs his horse into a fast lope, clearly excited to have found them, and Ezra sighs. "Man am I glad to see you guys. We thought something terrible happened." He pulls his horse to a snorting stop and frowns as he sees Vin's outfit. "What the hell happened to your clothes?"

"Nothing much," Vin says riding on. 

"Nothing much? Vin, you ain't got your coat!"

Vin sighs and says nothing. Ezra clears his throat and nudges his beast into a slightly faster walk. "The coat was, alas, unsalvageable."

"Yeah? And what happened to it?"

"Got stained," Vin says over his shoulder. "Ezra thought we should burn it."

"You _burned_ it?" JD squeaks. He turns on Ezra, eyes wide and mouth a perfect circle of shock. "Vin loved that coat!"

"Mr. Dunne, believe me when I say it was done out of sheer necessity and not malice," Ezra says, briskly. "Now, what news of the town? How do we fare?"

"Oh, we're all right. Ain't lost anyone else since Saturday. And nobody's gotten sick since yesterday. That's why Chris said I should go look for you guys today. Everyone was real worried when half the homesteaders showed up for church." JD glances between them and says, with more tact that Ezra thought him capable of, "Thought maybe you'd got lost."

Vin snorts at that, and JD shrugs.

"And the saloon?" Ezra asks, brushing past the tiresome implications of JD's statement, his mind already thinking of having Vin in his bed. "Is it still a general hospital?"

"Yeah." JD shrugs. "Reckon you'll have to find somewhere else to sleep."

"Always welcome in my wagon, Ezra," Vin says. 

"Well," Ezra says, leaning back in his saddle. "I believe I must take you up on that."

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus cholera research: The most dangerous part about cholera is the severe dehydration resulting from massive vomiting and diarrhea. The standard treatment now is to give the patient oral rehydration therapy (basically: drink lots of fluids that replenish your electrolytes). The common treatment back then...was probably to give the patient laudanum (a tincture -- typically alcoholic -- of opium), because that's what you gave everybody for everything, and in my quick research I was unable to find any evidence that the burgeoning modern medical profession understood either the dangers of dehydration or how to properly treat it. In a sense it probably would have worked, because opioids can be used to treat diarrhea. In an entirely different sense, it's probably one of the worst things you can give a person because (a) alcohol is a diuretic and (b) opium and alcohol are a pretty good sedative combination, which makes it a hell of a lot harder to get a person to replenish their liquids. 
> 
> All of which is to say: if you get struck down by a terrible gastro-intestinal bacteria, don't drink booze, kids! Grab that gatorade!


End file.
